Ashlyn Rowsing and the Olympians
by sparksflying
Summary: Meet Ashlyn Rowsing. A normal... well, not exactly normal. Just read to find out.
1. Chapter 1

If you've never had the shock of a satyr knocking on your front door, consider yourself lucky. All you people out there hoping in your hearts that you are a half-blood, listen up. You may be praying that your parent is a god of Olympus and that you may someday earn their recognition to become a hero, but trust me, it's worthless. The chances of this are slim to nothing. I should know.

I'm already in the 7th grade and I've never had the opportunity to be normal in my life. You should consider yourselves very lucky if you're just a regular mortal. I've always been bad in school because of my "problems" as the school counselor, Mr. Farrell, likes to say. Mr. Farrell thinks he understands people with "problems" because he has a few "problems" himself. He's got some kind of muscular disorder in his legs that makes him pretty lame. But, he was like that start with: lame, boring and extremely old-fashioned. I mean, people stopped saying 'thy' hundreds of years ago!

My problems are the typical dyslexia and ADHD. How I got stuck with both, I'll never know. I just accept it now that it's never going to change, so it doesn't bother me any. Today, in English class, I was getting really embarrassed and annoyed at how I had to struggle to read a paragraph aloud in class. My English teacher, Ms. Benson, is pointedly nice to everyone but me. It's like she likes to_makes_me read things that are difficult for me.

I was just following along with the group in the 7th Grade Literature book when she said, "My dear Ashlyn! Would you care to read the next paragraph for us?"

I wonder in my head, _Am I allowed to say, um… no, thank you. I have the right to remain silent?_ I figured not. I bring the book really close to my face and some boy named Thomas snickers in the back of the class (I have to sit right in the front because she thinks it will 'help me see better'). I shake off the giggles and begin, "Ellen…"

"Nelle!" Ms. Benson interjects, "It's Nelle Harper Lee, my dear."

"Oh right…" My face turned a beat read. I knew that! Why didn't I just use my brain? "Nelle… often called her… uh, father… by his first name." I looked up at her after the painful minute it took me to decipher one sentence. She gave me a look that was an attempt at the encouragement to go on.

I just couldn't take it: the children stifling laughs, people picking their nails and girls talking about distracting stuff. So I stood up at looked at Ms. Benson. "I'm sorry Ms. Benson, I can't read aloud." I was so fed up with how my classmates were acting, I got up and left the room. Ms. Benson made no attempt to come after me.

Where's a girl to go when she runs out of her English class? Counseling. I headed for Mr. Farrell's room…


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Any comment is appreciated!**

* * *

My first instinct was to go straight to Mr. Farrell's room, but considering the fact that Ms. Benson could care less that I had left, I went out into the school's courtyard. It was an early autumn day and the breeze was just perfect. I used to love when the season changed from summer to fall. It used to be my favorite time of the year. But everything is different now.

I heard a deep sob coming from the corner. It was difficult to listen to because it seemed like the woman crying was in agonizing pain. Curiosity is one of my infamous traits, and it certainly got the better of me on this particular occasion.

Following the sound of the weeping, I found a young woman sitting down on the ground against the school building. She was crushing leaves in her hand. When she saw me approach her, she looked up at me and the cries hit their climax.

I came right up to her and squat down to her eye level. Her face was very messy with smeared makeup and running mascara. She looked at me with sad, teary eyes. "I'm sorry for causing a commotion," the woman said, holding back more tears.

I read her substitute name tag, _Mrs. Barley. _"It's not trouble, Mrs. Barley." I said to hear in a sympathetic. If I hadn't been so sorry for her, I'd have noticed I didn't have any trouble reading her nametag.

Mrs. Barley raised her eyebrows. "How did you know my name?" I pointed to her name tag and she breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, yes, of course. My name tag." She rolled her eyes at herself and regained some strength.

I looked her up and down. She was very pretty. She was dressed in a burnt orange dress that went just past her knees. Her shoes were made with brown beads that matched her earrings, necklace and multiple bracelets. She also had a clip in her hair of a leaf that looked so real, I wanted to touch it. I'd never seen Mrs. Barley at my school before.

She sniffled, "I always get so sad this time of year…" she looked at the ground and around at the trees.

"Why?" I ask, feeling stupid for intruding on her personal business.

"Oh…" she grabbed some leaves in her hand and crushed them. I felt sorry for the leaves, getting smashed in her grip. "My daughter," she said after a while.

"Did she… pass on?" I wondered aloud.

Mrs. Barley laughed a sinister laugh. Her eyes darkened and she smiled, "Well, she went to Hell."

I furrowed my brow. Why would she kid about the very topic that was making her so upset? And how would she know where her daughter went after she died? "I see," I said after a while of contemplating and staring at her long fingers crush the leaves in her grasp. I suddenly had an idea. "Mrs. Barley, I'm going to see Mr. Farrell, the school counselor. Would you like to… uh, come with me?"

Mrs. Barley stopped smiling to herself and thought for a moment. "Alright, I'll go," she said, getting up off the ground and picking off the leaves crumbs that were on her dress. "What's your name, girl?"

I hesitated. Then I extended my hand for her to shake it. "Ashlyn. Ashlyn Rowsing, ma'am."

She shook my hand. It was soft and warm. She announced, "I'm Dem…" she snarled. It was a most unusual noise to come from a teacher. I've heard cackling, but certainly not snarling. "Demi," she said after a moment of thought, "Call me Mrs. Barley though. It's not as confusing."


	3. Chapter 3

Although I didn't think Mrs. Barley was weird at first, I soon saw that she was. For one thing, she walked kinda funny and paused every once in a while to have a crying fit. It took much ushering to get her to Mr. Farrell's room before the bell would ring for class to be over.

When we finally arrived, I knocked on Mr. Farrell's door and several moments later he swung it open. His hair was all tossed and weird as ever. On many occasions when he was complaining about "cleaning up my appearance to make a better impression" I've had impulses to tell him to get a good haircut. Mr. Farrell saw Mrs. Barley and did double take. I raised my eyebrows at him. He stared at Mrs. Barley, cocked his head in admiration and slowly dropped his jaw and narrowed his eyes. Now, Mrs. Barley was attractive, but he looked completely lost in her beauty.

I stood on my tiptoes and snapped my fingers in front of his face. For the first time he looked down at me. "Hello? Mr. Farrell? I'm here for counseling."

He broke out of his daze, "Oh yes! Of course you are. Come in…" he giggled when Mrs. Barley walked into his office and looked at the pictures on the wall.

"Luther?" Mrs. Barley shot her head around at him and raised her eyebrows.

Mr. Farrell smiled, "You remember me?"

"Yes, of course," Mrs. Barley replied.

"After all these years?"

"How could I forget?" she smiled at him and even I could feel Mr. Farrell's heart melt. "Good to see you again."

Silence fell. Mrs. Barley was trying to ignore Mr. Farrell. I was trying to get Mr. Farrell's attention by sitting down and motioning over Mrs. Barley. Things were quiet for a few seconds. Then I couldn't take it. "Can we get on with this?"

Mr. Farrell snapped out of it and took a seat at his desk. "I think it's time we tell the poor girl. We need new recruits anyway. I'm sure she's got some kind of cool talent."

"Cool talent? What are you talking about?" I wondered aloud.

"Ashlyn, you aren't normal." Mrs. Barley said with a sympathetic sigh.

"I already knew that!" I said with a hint of hysteria. I was breaking down because it seemed like the two adults knew each other and knew something I didn't.

"One of your parents is a god." Mr. Farrell said, breaking the news.


	4. Chapter 4

At first, there was no question in my mind that they were playing some kind of practical joke on me. But when things got tense and I saw the looks on both of their faces, I was confused.

Surely, it was impossible. Mr. Farrell knows I'm adopted, so I don't even know who my parents are. He wouldn't be so cruel to make a joke of it though, would he? I hoped not. I desperately hoped not. However, when he started taking his pants off, I almost fainted. Underneath those long khaki slacks were a pair of fake, plastic legs and some fur coming out the top of them. He started stripping completely and under normal circumstances I would have been really embarrassed and freaked out.

I observed Mrs. Barley's reaction and she was acting completely natural as he took off his clothes. As if she expected this. Or she already knew that his legs weren't real.

I said, "What the heck are you? A faun?"

Mrs. Barley rolled her eyes, "No more Chronicles of Narnia for you. Think… Greek."

"Greek?" I had no idea what she was talking about. So, I decided that then was the opportune moment to faint.

* * *

I awoke and Mrs. Barley was hovering over me. I had no idea where we were. I looked around and I recognized I was in a car. An SUV to be specific. Was I being abducted by a duo of lunatics? A goat man and a stunningly gorgeous lady? This had to be a dream.

"Err…" I mumbled, feeling stupid as I sat up in the seat. "What's going on?"

"Luther and I are _es_corting you to Camp," Mrs. Barley said with a smile. I took note of how she put emphasis on "es" in "escorting" as if her "escorting me to Camp" was a big deal.

"Is anyone going to explain anything to me?" I said dramatically.

"Wait until we get there." I see Mr. Farrell turn around in the driver seat.

Suddenly I'm upset. "Who said you could order me around, half-goat man!" I called out to Mr. Farrell. I just see his brow crinkle and he lets out a soft goat noise.

"I do not respond to such treatment," he says, huffing.

"Ok," I say under my breath, shrugging my shoulders quickly. Who needs a goat explaining things anyway? Where are all the normal people?  
For a while, all of us just sit in the car, slowly driving down a long winding road. We pass several farms and vineyards and strawberry fields. I recognize that I'm heading east on Long Island. My adoptive family lives in a town called Port Jefferson. During the summers, I used to come to this part of the Island and pick strawberries. This trip reminds me of some of my best memories. However, the last time I'd taken this ride, it was not with a crazy woman and goat man.

"We're here!" Mr. Farrell announces. He pulls over the SUV and Mrs. Barley steps out of the car immediately. I see her shoes land on the ground and I watch as, with every step she takes, the grass beneath her feet dies.

"Where are we?" I practically yell at Farrell. But for once, I don't need someone to answer something for me. I look up to see a sign hanging above my head and the sign reads: CAMP HALF BLOOD.


End file.
